


A Pocket Full of Posies

by YouMeAtNope



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Blacksmith Reiner, Death, Dominant virgin Marco, Historical, Illness, Kissing, Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Quack doctor Armin and Eren, Romance, Sasha has a bakery, bad boy jean who's a submissive little shit, marco has a horse, poor peasant impersonation, pretty angsty, the great plague
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-04-27 14:09:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5051440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouMeAtNope/pseuds/YouMeAtNope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I never wanted to leave home. I never wanted to up stakes and move out into the wide blue yonder, but you just know that once a king leaves his kingdom that not much else can be done for his people. You'd be damned to stick out another night in a place that was only doomed to end, so why was I so guilty for leaving? Why not leave like a king?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ring-a-ring o' roses

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write a decent Jeanmarco fic, and I came up with the idea of this when I was reading this book I got when I was eleven called 'At The Sign Of The Sugared Plum.' 
> 
> It's pretty angsty and about the plague during 1665, so I thought I'd put my favs in a horrific situation because I hate myself.

 I never understood how people could just up stakes and leave.

I didn't understand how parents decided they'd leave the lives they had, the lives they had built in order to move to a new place, somewhere they didn't know. They took everything they could, everything they could carry so they could start this new life. I had seen my friends, acquaintances and their families  _just leave_. They left like they didn't care about the lives they were leaving behind. It was almost as if they were glad to see us all behind them, and many were glad to kiss a life of poverty goodbye.

It wasn't exactly that we were poor, it was that we tried harder than most people to get by. I'll admit it, I had my fair share of stealing bread from the baker, stealing anything that would bring my family money or full stomachs for a while longer. My father had a job, he earned money for us, albeit a small amount; but it was just enough to get by for another day. It was just after my fourteenth birthday when he grew ill, and the fever consumed him. I became the man of the house then, looking after my mother and little sister, taking over my father's job as a leatherworker. My early work as a leatherworker was hard, and making saddles was something I found difficult, as I hadn't learned all of the tricks of the trade from my father. 

As a child I made bridles and reins out of rope for our horse. She was an old horse, being one and twenty years; significantly older than myself, and my father got her when he was but nine years old. I myself didn't receive a horse of my own until I was but twelve; my father having struggled to keep our family fed when I was a babe. The horse I received was grey and white, and her mane was a grey brown. The mare in question was but a filly when I got her, my father having bought her off a farmer as a mere jest to vex me as she was covered in patches; much like the freckles that covered my body. My father never said how much he paid for her, but I remember us being hungry for a while.

My mother cackled the second she saw her, understanding the jest that my father put forward. My freckles were something I had never been proud of, as people said I was much like the poor milkmaids riddled with cowpox that scarcely sold as much as a goblet of milk by the side of the road. 

"Aye, Marco, ye look like a wee milk maiden with those pox scars!" A line I heard many times from the old widowed farmer that lived in our village. If I was one of the more troublesome boys I'd have the mind to tell him that his wife looked just the same, but he loved her anyway; yet I couldn't bring myself to do it. My mother all but dragged my sister and I up with nothing but respect, but it didn't mean that I didn't think about disrespectful things from time to time. Knowing my luck, I'd spew some disrespectful rubbish and my mother would find out by the time I got home.

 

I recalled a time when my father took me with him on the long journey to Norwich when I was thirteen, where we could sell the saddles he had made. He had sent me off once we arrived to fetch some bread, whilst he set up our goods on the back of the rickety old cart we came on. I pulled some coins out of the small leather purse my father had given me, and paid the baker. Stuffing the bread in the safety of my shirt, I went back to find my father, near dropping the bread as I spotted three bridles taking prime position of our goods. My father held a bridle in his hands, showing it to a man in a fine set of black heeled shoes, white stockings with blue ribbons wrapped around the top; and wearing the fanciest green quilted silk outfit I'd ever seen.

My father was showing off the parts of the bridle, running his fingers over the nose piece as he seemed to describe the quality of the leather. All of the bridles were mine, the ones that I had spent what seemed like an eternity on. A part of me wanted to fly over and ask why he had  _my_ bridles, but the other part of me filled with joy as the man pulled out a purse with his kid gloved hands. My father spotted me, calling me over with a joyful grin and a beckoning motion of his hand.

The man in front of my father lifted his head, raising an eyebrow as he then addressed me with a nod and his eyes scanned over me. My father laid his hand on my shoulder, squeezing at the joint as he looked back at the man with a prideful edge to his voice. "This is my son, Marco, the one who made the bridles."

The gentleman beamed, looking down at me with shining chestnut brown eyes as he gestured towards the bridle with a firm hand. "I must say, this is the best work I've seen from any young boy. I think your work exceeds the standards that even some grown men strive to achieve!" His voice was rich and animated. Anyone would believe him to be some kind of actor in a playhouse. He seemed a confident man, someone that took joy in the finer things of life but also knew when to respect the people that created such objects. He had a jesting attitude to him that I knew would cause him problems in the future. And it probably caused him some in the past, too.

"Thank you kindly, m'lord." I stood tall, bowed my head and ensured that I seemed 'proper'. My mother did her best to make sure I was advised how to behave in the presence of a person with higher breeding. He let out a deep, throaty laugh in response, still grinning as he pointed a gloved hand at the piece my father held.

"Well, considering you made this fine piece, how much would you like for it?"

I glanced at my father with a nervous expression, and it was my expression that caused him to laugh as he squeezed my shoulder again before dropping his hand. "Go on, son." He murmured, a smile playing on his lips as he held the bridle by his side and watched me with great interest, much alike the fine gentleman before us.

"I'd like a pound."

" _Just_ a pound?" The man asked, an amused edge to his voice.

"A pound _and_ sixpence." My demand caused a booming laugh to escape the man, his head rolling back on his neck as he held his stomach with one hand, coin purse in the other. He dabbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, wiping away the tears of mirth that formed at the corners of his eyes. He gave me what he owed, a pound and sixpence, and went on his way; he promised he'd spread news of the "little lorimer." 

Thankfully, his news had spread within the time we were at the market, various people were stepping up to view our wares. The rest of my bridles were sold for a pretty penny, and my father managed to sell over half of his saddles, along with some of the other things he had made; such as purses, riding crops and stirrups.

 

I half expected my father to take the money I received for the bridles for safe keeping, but he didn't, instead he ruffled my hair and helped me sell two other bridles. He told me to save the money, and work up a pretty amount so I could put it to good use when I was older. Once we had arrived home my father told me to go inside and tell my mother we were back. I stood in front of the door, staring down at the coin purse I held in my right hand, and I felt a sinking feeling at the bottom of my stomach as I went inside; watching my sister as she looked down at the small portion of food in front of her.

The money in my palm seemed to cause an itch to spread throughout my body, an itch that told me I couldn't continue letting our family struggle to buy things that they couldn't afford. It was then that I took that step, calling out for my mother to announce our arrival. A door opened, footsteps sounded, and then my mother was making her way downstairs. A smile was present on her lips as she made her way across the stone floor and pulled me towards her; she wrapped her arms around me.

"I weren't sure when you'd be back! Ah, I'm glad!" She pressed a kiss to the top of my head, slowly letting go of me as she took a step back and her eyes widened in surprise. "Did you get taller on way t'Norwich? You're almost tall as me!" I let out a laugh as she held my cheeks and pressed a kiss to my forehead. 

"I might have done, mother," was all I could reply as she continued to beam. She leaned sideways and peered out of the cottage window. "Is your father out there?" She asked. I nodded, moving past her as I took off my scarf and coat and placed them with the others. "He told me to tell you we were home. I think he's sorting out Penny and the cart."

"Wouldn't surprise me, love. Better he does it now than faff around t'morrow." My mother was right, like she always was. She placed her hands on her hips, smiled again and moved to the pot that hung over the stove, pouring my dinner into a bowl.

"We made a lot at the market." I announced, squeezing my coin purse. My mother set my dinner on the table, across from my sister's. "I knew you would, bet you helped your father an' all?" I nodded, moving towards the table as I held my purse out to her. My mother's expression changed as she looked at the worn leather purse.

She shook her head slowly, knowing what I was getting at. She took a step back, fingers fiddling with her apron strings as she looked up at my eyes. "Mother, please." I moved forward, grasping her hand as I then placed the coin purse into her palm and closed her fingers around it. "I can't ask that of you, Marco." Her voice was soft; sad. She knew the struggle we had with making money on a day to day basis, she didn't want me to deal with that too.

"I want you to have it." My voice was firm, adamant, and my mother let out a breath as she felt the weight of the leather and coins in her palm. She moved closer to the table, pulling open the strings of the leather purse and pouring the contents onto the surface of the table. It was then that she gasped and gazed up at me, clenching a fist and holding it to her chest as tears welled up in her eyes. "How did you get all this?"

"Father brought some bridles with us... I thought he was sellin' 'em and keepin' the money but- but he let me sell 'em." I replied, watching tears roll down my mother's cheeks as she pulled me to her once more; tightly wrapping her arms around me. I wrapped my arms around her in return, breathing in her scent. She smelt like earth and lavender, like she always did. I leaned my head against her shoulder. Her scent was comforting.

"You're a good boy, Marco. Sucha good boy."

  

* * *

  _August, 1665._

I stared up at the ceiling in my bedroom, watching a fly as it caught in a spider's web. The spider ran across the silk-like strands of its web, grabbing the fly. I always found it strange how the insects caught in a spider's web only struggled for a short while, how they didn't put up much of a fight. I'd like to think that I would put up a fight and defeat the spider, or whatever was trying to end my life. That's the thing about growing up poor, you learn to fight.

After a short while the spider began to spin the fly in its web, and I grew tired of watching. A cool breeze passed through my window, fluttered the curtain and all was still once more. The summer heat was taking its toll, and we were all being effected by it. My palms were sticky, clammy, as I climbed out of bed and pulled off my sweat soaked shirt, carrying it downstairs with me as I laid it on the pile of washing.

I stepped outside, smelling the multitude of flowers that bloomed in the front garden, the sound of crickets and grasshoppers filling the air. My mother was outside as well, humming to herself as she hung out the washing on the line of twine that led from the wall of the cottage to a tree at the far end of our front garden. She was wearing a blue dress, with white sleeves that were pushed up to her elbows. The bottom of her dress brushed against the grass beneath her feet, shifting as she shifted. Her hair was down, much to the chagrin of the women over the age of forty that lived in our village, women that wore fine caps and coifs to cover their hair; doing their best to cover 'sinful' parts of themselves. 

My mother never was one for sticking out like a sore thumb, but she certainly enjoyed the way women complained that "a woman her age should know better." I, for one, understood why my mother acted the way she did, because she felt like she was entitled to a little bit more freedom after my father's passing; and although his death hit her the hardest, she was the strongest of us all. She was never a floozy though, even after my father's death. Men asked to court her, did their best to force her hand, yet she always refused. My mother's heart belonged to my sister and I, and she didn't want it any other way.

"You plannin' on saying hello to your mother, or are you gonna sneak about?" 

"Damn it." I muttered. My mother moved as quick as a whip, turning around to face me, hands on her hips and her brows raised. "Marco!"

"Sorry, mother!" I called out an apology, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks as I nervously rubbed at the back of my head. She shook her head slowly as she stepped towards me, leaning close as she pulled at my ear. "Mother. Ow!" I let out a string of pain filled sounds as my mother merely cackled before letting go.

"Now what will th' neighbours say if they 'ear you takin' th' Lord's name in vain?" A smirk was present on her lips, and it was one that I knew all too well.

My mother never was one for believing in God, my father and her liked to keep up appearances, though; they took us to church most Sundays, of course. I wasn't one for disrespecting people's views of God, though. My mother brought us up to respect people's beliefs - my father on the other hand... well, he would make snide comments in church when Mrs Jones was well and truly entranced by that Sunday's sermon.

She always seemed to hear though, frown lines forming on her heavily wrinkled face as she sat up in the pew and shot my father a glare. My father would then slyly stick his middle finger up at her, that was until my mother caught him and threatened to break it. He then stopped sticking his finger up at Mrs Jones, and he then stopped going to church. I stopped going too.

 

 "Where are you plannin' on 'eadin' anyway, hmmm?" I took a few steps away from her, moving towards the washing line as I pulled off a dark red shirt and slipped it over my head, covering up my heavily freckled skin.

 "I was goin' to take Clover for a ride..." I replied, turning around as I rubbed the back of my neck with what had to have been the most forced smile possible. My mother narrowed her eyes, knowingly. She raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed as she swatted the side of my arm with the back of her hand.

"You're goin' to Connie's, aren't you?" There was no point in lying to her once she knew she was right, and she certainly was. I felt a pout form on my lips as I tried to step back into her good graces, calling her 'Mama' for greater effect. Of course, the name only led her to swatting at me multiple times.

"Marco Bodt! You know better than t'make me feel bad by usin' that name!" Thankfully by this point she had stopped swatting at my arm, and instead took to crossing her arms as she gazed up at me. I hadn't realised how tall I was getting. 

I could only grin at her as I backed away towards the door of our cottage, sitting on the front step as I pulled my boots up from the floor and slid them on. I watched as my mother slowly shook her head, moving towards me with her brows raised. _I'm surprised they don't get stuck that way when the wind changes._ She fiddled with the pleats of her dress, a nervous edge to her voice as she spoke, "Marco... you are comin' back, right?" Her face had softened, her eyes watering in a way that it was difficult to tell if it was due to the light or just her sheer emotions alone. 

I slowly rose to my feet, adjusting my gaze as I shielded my eyes from the sun and stepped closer to her. A lone tear made its way down her cheek, causing a shining trail to cross her freckled skin.

"I'll be back. You know I will," I pulled my mother into my arms, feeling as she grasped at the back of my shirt; her head pressed against the middle of my chest. "I always come back, ma."

It wasn't long before I pressed a kiss to my mother's cheek and backed away, watching as she wiped her tears with the backs of her hands. She sniffed, and I could just hope that she wouldn't become ill as I moved and jumped over the low garden wall, making my way to Connie's. My boots thudded against the dusty paths and cobblestones that lay on the floor in our village. I turned left, running a few yards, clearing a passing wheel barrel full of fine hay; no doubt it was for the finer horses that passed through with their wealthy owners. Not too long after passing the wheeled contraption I was then forced to duck, passing under a large hog held either end by the butcher and his hulk of a son.

  

I soon reached Connie's bakery; Braus' Bakery, and a strained look was what Connie gave me when he looked up from the counter, his left eye bruised and swollen. He didn't utter a word, he didn't need to, as Sasha was banging about in the kitchen, slamming various kitchen utensils onto the surfaces. I was pretty sure that I could hear dough being slammed down, too, but it was hard to tell from the other crashes that sounded from the room. I stood opposite Connie, offering him a weak smile as I gestured to his eye.

"I bet I can guess where that came from."

"Marco, don't. You shoulda seen the other guy." His voice was almost breathless, like he had just sprinted all the way back. His statement piqued my interest, and I couldn't help but lean towards him as I frowned. He held a wet cloth to his eye, trying to stop the swelling. "You mean she didn't do that?" I whispered, nodding out back to gesture to Sasha.

Connie shook his head, hazel eyes filled with a frightened expression as he dropped the cloth, letting it land against the counter with a wet slap. "'Tis weren't our here Sasha, it was th' guy from a few days back."

"Crooked back, lotta muscles and a funny eye?" I tilted my head, watching as he wiped his hands on his shirt, drying them. "Tha's th' one." He let out a sigh, as did I as I muttered a quiet 'damn'. He could only nod, the sun shining against a patch on his bald head. 

"And your missus hasn't seen your eye?" Was what I then asked, acquiring a nearby stool and then sitting down upon it, trying to balance on the rickety legs that creaked menacingly below me. 

"Nah, she thinks I was just off messin' with you. She's jus' bangin' around because I wasn't 'ere workin'. She ain't took one step outta that kitchen." Connie shook his head, rubbing his eyes, and then hissing the second he remembered the bruise. "Just wait 'til she sees that, she'll have your head mounted 'bove the door."

He walked around the counter, picking up a basket and filling it with bread. I turned my head, watching him intently as I sneaked an end off one of the pieces of bread and chewed on it as he worked.

 "Guess it's better than havin' it on a spike on London bridge." I laughed at that. I crossed my arms over my chest as I watched him fiddle with a corner of a cloth that he pulled from his belt. He then took to wiping it across the surface of the counter, cleaning off the crumbs I was making.

"You still believe that?" I asked. Even my own mother used the heads on London bridge to warn me to behave. Well, that was once she found out I'd been stealing food for us. Connie threw the cloth at me.

 "'Course I believe it! My mam warned me not 'ta go off makin' trouble. Said ' _You'll 'ave ye 'ead on a spike in London if yer not careful._ ' I'm not takin' no chances." 

"You know as well as I do that she did that to scare you." Was all I murmured, placing the last bit of bread in my mouth and thoughtfully chewing as he spoke. 

"An' it bloody worked an' all!" He proclaimed. A crash sounded from the kitchen. Connie drew the sign of the cross across his head and shoulders. "She loves you, she won't kill you," Connie raised an eyebrow, lifting his head almost as if to say 'you wanna bet?' "Okay, so maybe she'd hurt you a bit first... maybe knock you out, but she means well."

 When Sasha finally came out of the kitchen she didn't get a good look at Connie's face, she could only see his profile as he spoke to me and attempted to shield his face. A menacing aura surrounded us all, and I had no doubt that it was from the chestnut haired maiden as she stormed across the shop floor... Boots slamming against the aged wood with every single step. Both Connie and myself winced and flinched with every stomp of her feet, Connie muttering under his breath,

"God 'ave mercy on our souls."

The kindly soon to be Mrs Springer forced me to sit outside the bakery and sell some bread from the previous day, practically blaming me from covering up the fact that Connie had the crap beaten out of him. She stomped back inside, pulled Connie into the kitchen and shut the door. All was silent, then the shouting started.

"You can't go beatin' up old men! What would your mother think of you actin' like that?!"

 

I had a small wooden table made up, with various loaves of bread arranged upon the surface. A young boy, around the age of ten, thudded down the cobblestones outside Connie's bakery. He was wearing a pale green, and rather threadbare shirt, with brown trousers. His feet were bare, and I felt sorry for the poor lad, for I knew the pain of running barefoot on stones. 

His destination was the tailor's shop, and he all but doubled over outside, bending forward slightly with his hands on his hips as he drew in long breaths; attempting to get his breath back. The old tailor stood just outside the shop, not too far from the boy as he swept the dust from the cobblestones with an aged broom. The splintered wood creaked with every sweep, and I was honestly surprised that it didn't just break.

He sung a rather dreary song to himself as he worked at getting the dirt and dust from between the cobbles to move further away from his shop's entrance. 

_"Ring-a-ring o' roses,_  
_A pocket full of posies,_  
_A-tishoo! A-tishoo!"_

The man's hair was thinning, but neatly combed back, and he wore dark red breeches, topped with a forest green shirt. The tailor was a proud man, someone that didn't have enough money to dress like the young gallants that passed our town on horseback in their fine coloured clothes; but the tailor himself was someone that was happy with what he had, he didn't need anything else.

Once the boy got his breath back, he then wiped his brow as he looked up at the tailor, his face red as he approached and the tailor looked down at the child. "How can I help, my boy?" The man's voice was raspy, like he had a sore throat. He had a sickness in his chest for a great many years that prevented him from being in tip top condition, but he worked his fingers to the bone day after day for a near thirty years.

"My mam needs some fabric, somethin' blue she says. My sister is needin' a new top for later this week, a meetin' with some gent, my mam says." His voice was something that people were used to, and his pronunciation didn't faze people at all for most people in the area were from poor and uneducated backgrounds. The old man nodded once and rested his broom against the wall of his shop as he scratched at his head, and then spoke.

"You're in luck, lad. I just came back from London this morning!" The tailor beamed, practically yanking the boy's arm off as he dragged him into the shop. I smiled to myself and stared down at the grain of the wooden table, brushing bread crumbs off of the surface to make the arrangement look more presentable.

 

* * *

 

The town seemed to bustle with passing people, some coming into the bakery to buy assortments of bread and pastries. I sold the majority of the bread Sasha and Connie gave me. Sasha gave in from hiding Connie in the kitchen, away from the customers, and brought him out to deal with the people that wished to buy their goods. The women that entered jumped half a foot in the air the second they caught sight of his bruised eye and stepped back, holding their hands to their breasts. The men that came in seemed to pity Connie, taking one look at how he flinched every time Sasha made a loud noise and put two and two together.

It was plain to see that some believed that Sasha had harmed Connie, and I knew that it wouldn't be long before word spread of the baker that beats her husband. I honestly didn't want to see how Sasha would react to that one. Their relationship was already scandalous for the fact that Sasha had fallen pregnant but two years before, soon losing the child within days of its birth. The couple weren't married, and so the people of the town looked upon them with disdain.

The baby, Maria, was buried in Eyam cemetery wrapped in a white shawl that my mother had knitted for the child after hearing of Sasha's pregnancy. The shrouded form was neatly placed into a small wooden box and placed into the earth; three roses being placed upon the grave for each day that she lived.

Connie made his way back to the Braus' bakery, saying that he needed to prepare for the next day, whereas Sasha sat at the foot of her daughter's grave, staring blankly. She didn't cry, she didn't make a sound. It was hard to watch a fifteen year old Sasha cry over her daughter's grave, and it was even harder to think of her as both a friend and now a childless mother.

I can't remember how long she sat out there, how she sat in the dirt, clutching at a small piece of Maria's shawl. By the time she returned home it was dark, and the only people that passed through the streets were people outside the local tavern at the end of the street. I watched her pass along the cobbles, her expression changing with every step she took, her face contorted by the candlelight of the street lamps. Tears threatened to spill the second she stepped through the door and I called out Connie's name.

He was on the shop floor within seconds, eyes searching those of his girlfriend. The pain in her eyes was heartbreaking to see, and what stood before Connie wasn't a broken woman, but a broken girl. Sasha was just a girl.

As the customers left and Connie went about the shop, preparing for closing time, I gazed out of the window and watched as the young boy from before left the tailor's with a bundle of fabric under his left arm. He held a hand to his neck, scratching as he passed the shop and moved across the cobblestones, barefoot. 

 

As the sun set, a merry jig sounded from the tavern, the sound of a fiddler playing a tune that seemed to speed up with every second. I closed the shutters, soon turning away from the window as I moved across the shop floor and knocked on the counter. Connie turned to me, flashing a tired smile as he closed the door to the oven, the flame no longer lit.

"You okay?" I asked quietly, hearing gentle thuds as Sasha arranged the cleaned pots and bowls in the kitchen. My friend nodded as he stepped to the counter, the floorboards below his feet creaking as he leaned against the counter.

"Yeah. She's calm now, I'm thinkin' that means I'm forgiven." I flashed him a smile and watched as he pulled the string from his waist and took off his apron. "Try to lay low for a while, Con. She don't need to be worry about you bein' punched by old men." Connie snorted at that as he hung up his apron on a nail fixed to the wall. His demeanor changed as he addressed me, curling his fingers into a fist as he gently punched my arm.

"Thank ya for today, Marco. It means a lot with you helpin' us out all the time," he leaned forward, glancing towards the kitchen as he spoke in a low voice, "but are ya sure ya don't want any payin'? I could sneak ya a few pennies from time to time." I shook my head. Both Connie and Sasha felt so unbelievably awful for not paying me for helping the two of them, even though I asked them not to, that they would sneak money into my pockets and coin purse. Only once did I ever manage to return the money to them, but Sasha slapped me up the side of the head.

I accepted bread, though. Their baked goods were more than enough for me to accept for helping the two of them out, and Sasha even showed me how to bake bread and cakes and the sweetest fruit pies. Me bringing food home at the end of the week was something that my family and I looked forward to, and I was sure that my mother and sister were more happy about the food than my arrival home. 

Before I left, Sasha came out of the kitchen to bid me farewell, handing me a basket full of bread and baked goods. I could smell the heavenly scent of home baking and I profusely thanked Sasha, taking the basket from her and saying goodbye to Connie as I left the bakery. The two of them stood in front of the door, their figures outlined by the light of the shop as they waved me goodbye as I made my way down the cobblestones.

In a window above the tailor's shop, the flame of a candle flickered, and then went out.


	2. A pocket full of posies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been so long since I last updated, I've had exams on, and my dog died so my motivation has gone downhill. I hope this chapter is okay for you guys. (Reminder that my tumblr is llawlietamane.tumblr.com/ if you want to follow me or ask me anything).

No one greeted me when I arrived back home, for both my sister and mother were asleep, my mother having fallen asleep at the kitchen table. It was so unusual not to be greeted, and I admitted to myself that it had to be the first time that I had not been welcomed back home. I crept across the stone floor of the kitchen, placing the basket from the bakery on the centre of the aged kitchen table. I stood there for a while, watching my mother as she slept.

I'd always thought my mother was beautiful, even when I was a child. I'd watch her stand in front of the fireplace, the bright orange flames flicking up against the old pot she used to cook with. The flames would dance about in the pit, sending odd dancing shadows across the walls and ceiling; there were shadows on my mother's face too. The flames let me see her full cheeks, her tanned skin from working outside; she told me that our relatives had tanned skin too, and that's how it appeared.

My mother had the nicest hair too, for it was dark and curly, and I thought it was nicer than any expensive wig. Her hair was something that was passed onto my sister, as she too had waist length curls that made the girls in our village jealous, and the boys weak at the knees. She was an image our my mother, and I had a feeling she'd mature as gracefully as mother had.

I smiled as my mother shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, her head moving and her brown locks tumbled over the edge of the table, a few curls still resting against the wood. I looked to the fireplace, seeing the hearth dimly lit as the embers of the fire were as orange as fallen leaves in the autumn. Seeing as it was still rather mild in temperature, I moved to a chest in the living room and pulled out a thin blanket. I smoothed my mother's hair behind her ear and gently laid the blanket across her shoulders, ensuring she was warm before I left the house once more.

After closing the darkened door of the cottage, I then moved to the side of the building and crossed the stone path where I came to a stop and peered into the dark space behind our house, gently whistling into the darkness. A soft whinny responded from somewhere in the black, followed by the sound of footfalls. I watched as a grey figure fled through the darkness, proceeding towards me. If I hadn't known what it was then I would have thought it to be a ghost or a wraith; yet it was not. 

I pursed my lips, making a kissing sound as the shape moved further towards me, the figure becoming clearer with every step, taking the shape of a horse. It was Clover, my mare. Her dark, black eyes glistened under the faint light that shone from the closest window. She snorted as I raised my hand, pressing her muzzle to my palm. Her fur was soft to the touch, clean, and I smiled as her eyes closed for a few moments as I petted her. 

"How have you been?" I murmured, hearing the soft huffing noises that she made in response. All I could do was chuckle at her reaction, moving my hand up her face and to the side of her head as I stroked between her ears. "I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier." Once again, she huffed and then snorted, pushed her head against my hand and continued to let me pet her.

Horses were one of my favourite animals, for they were soft and gentle and many of them were more patient than people. Clover came to me when she was three years old, when I was twelve, and she was at that thankful age where she could easily adapt. She got on well with our older horse, Penny, up until the day old Penny died. The butcher told my father that he wanted her body for various cuts of meat, but my father refused. She was buried behind our house in the hot summer, and it took a damn long time to dig a hole big enough to rest her body. 

The heat made her body seize up, and she started to smell long before we finished with the hole. Once we covered her my sister uttered a small prayer over her grave and we laid flowers upon the earth, my father sitting out beside her grave overnight to make sure the butcher didn't try to steal her under the cover of darkness. He was sick the next day, and died within the end of the week. My mother swore it was him staying out all night before Penny's grave in the cold, others thought he'd become sick from dealing with her corpse. "The miasma is what caused it, I'm tellin' ya." Was what old Mrs Jones whispered after his funeral. My mother nearly wrung her neck.

It seemed that people were awaiting my death, too, but by the end of the next week I was healthier than ever, having more muscles than before; probably from digging the grave. It seemed fitting that my father died after his horse, not that any of us wished him to die; but my mother liked to think that the two of them would look after each other - wherever they were. 

With Clover being eight, I mentally counted down the years until sickness and age kicked in, and I couldn't bring myself to think how I'd cope with her death. I continued petting her nonetheless, patting the side of her neck as I then walked down to the barn my father built. Although it was dark, I knew my way around, shifting some hay into a trough fitted to the wall, dipping my fingers into the water trough beside it to see if there was water left. There was.

The soft sound of Clover's hooves followed behind me, her warm muzzle nuzzling against the side of my neck. I sat with her for a while in the hay, her head resting heavily in my lap, her large eyes lulling shut as my fingers stroked down the centre of her nose. The soft velvet between my fingertips was warm to the touch, supple and smooth. Before I became too tired to stand, I left Clover for the night, not wanting a repeat of my mother complaining that I spent the night in the barn again like a wild animal.

As if understanding my reason for leaving, Clover lifted her head, snorted once and then turned her head away from the open door. It didn't take long to walk back to the house, and once I was inside I noticed that my mother had gone from the kitchen table, the blanket I had placed on her being neatly folded and placed on the chair she was sitting on.

I pulled off my shoes and walked barefoot upstairs, leaving my boots by the front door. The floorboards were warm beneath my feet and I did my best to avoid the squeaking parts of the stairs, not wanting to wake anyone up. As soon as my bedroom door was shut I pulled off my shirt, folded it and placed it on the stool beside my window. My bed creaked as I settled down onto it and pulled the sheets up to my chin, staring up at the ceiling at the space where the spider inhabited earlier on, but it was no longer there.

* * *

_I was running, my feet pushing me forward as I moved along the cobblestones in town. The sky was dark, the air was hot and the smell of death and rotting flesh filled my nose, causing my stomach to churn almost violently. Blood, vomit and bodies laid scattered across the floor, people lying where they died, others being pulled onto a large cart at the end of the street. I passed that as well, holding my shirt over my nose as I ran and I ran, my legs aching fit to scream and my chest heaving from the strain of my breath in my lungs._

_As I turned the corner, I saw a man dead outside the tavern, eyes lifeless and sad as he clutched a Bible to his chest, mouth hanging open. I sped up the cobblestones, feeling the hard forms beneath my boots as I moved faster to reach the bakery._ _They just had to be alive._

_The shop was boarded up, heavy chains wrapped around the door, preventing it from being opened, whereas the wood itself was now painted with a red cross, warning people not to enter. I was too late. Tears sprung from my eyes as my stomach churned once more, and I looked to the windows of the upper floor, stepping backwards to try and look in. Slender fingers wiggled underneath the crack in the open window and it was then that I could hear crying._

_We had all heard stories of how it was thought best to stay away from houses of the infected to avoid breathing in the toxic fumes, and that's what I did. Saliva filled my mouth and I heaved, feeling my ribs grind as I vomited, a rancid taste coating my tongue. I whispered an apology as I took off once more, spitting a couple of times to rid my mouth of the foul taste before I held my shirt over my mouth and nose again._

_The smell of death became even more overwhelming than before and I watched as an old rickety card pulled along by a plodding horse carried numerous bodies piled on top of each other, the driver coughing violently into the cuff of his sleeve. I was sure that he too would become infected. Somewhere towards the top of the pile was the face of a young girl with freckles, and dark curly hair. Alongside her was a woman, looking just like the young girl._

_I opened my mouth to scream, yet nothing came out._

* * *

My eyes shot open and through tear filled eyes I watched as my mother poked her head around my bedroom door, an odd smile on her lips as she pushed the door all the way open. "Time to wake up, Marco." For a moment the image of my mother that I saw in my dream flashed through my mind and I had to physically shake my head to get rid of the thought. I grumbled something in my sleep ridden state, and rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I dragged myself out of my bed, my mother moving to the window as she peered out across to the fields and woods. Her left hand fiddled with her braided hair, and I found it rather odd, as my mother only braided her hair when she was worried.

"Connie and Sasha are downstairs." She whispered, voice threatening to break. I nodded slowly, unsure, even though she couldn't see the action, and she soon left me to get changed. After changing into a clean pair of undershorts, trousers and a soft blue shirt I made my way downstairs, disturbed by the lack of laughter that I was so used to. Connie and Sasha were at the kitchen table, across from my mother and sister. The four of them looked to me as I entered the room, fearful expressions on Connie and Sasha's face; the bruising on Connie's face still present. 

"What's happened?" I asked, breaking the silence of the room. Sasha's grip on Connie's hand tightened and that alone was more than enough to tell me that something was truly very wrong. "It's the tailor that lives across from us." It was Connie that replied, his voice coarse. My sister, Grace, swallowed hard, leaning into my mother's embrace. I stood behind the two of them, nodding once at Connie for him to continue.

"We woke up this mornin' and there was some shoutin' outside. The tailor's daughter came to help 'im open up shop but he wouldn' answer. She got the butcher's lad to break down the door an' they found 'im covered in marks."He looked up at me. "He was dead, Marco."

I swallowed, much like Grace did. "H-He died?" I whispered, then frowning as Sasha took her time and continued with the story. Connie nodded and wrapped an arm around her, gently squeezing her shoulder as she spoke. "That was it. The butcher's lad ran off and we could just hear her screamin' from inside the shop. We didn't know what was happenin' until we came to the shop's door, an' the doctor came. A couple people from the street were wonderin' what was happenin' an all, and the doctor warned 'em to keep back. He said it was-"

Sasha trembled from head to foot, bottom lip quivering as her lips failed to form the words that she so clearly needed to say. The room was as quiet as a tomb as Connie uttered the two very words that we were all waiting to hear.

"The plague."

 

"How did he get the plague?" Grace asked in a voice so quiet that one had to almost strain in order to hear it. Sasha leaned across the table, gently gripping Grace's small hand as she squeezed it. "We don' know, sweetie." Her voice was louder than Grace's, at a far more audible volume.

"He just came back from London yesterday morning." Was all I could say. Connie nodded in agreement and the room fell silent once more. The Plague had hit London very hard over the months, and it was odd why the tailor decided to go to London to buy his fabric. My mother took her turn to speak, slowly rising to her feet as she stood at the head of the table. "We've all been strugglin' to get more and more things from around the country since the plague started. He musta been desperate."

 I thought back to the young boy from the previous day, how he bought fabric from the tailor, how he had scratched at his skin from the moment he left. He couldn't have caught it... could he? Could he have taken that very sickness that the tailor caught back home to his own family? Would they all die, too?

"Yesterday... a boy brought some fabric from him." I glanced from my mother to Connie, moving my hands to the top of my head as I let out a breath. A hiccup like sound escaped Grace's lips and she leaned in towards me, pressing her head to my side. I sat in my mother's place and moved an arm around her, holding her close to me as I gently ran a hand through her hair. "Then God 'ave mercy on that little lad's soul." Connie murmured something under his breath, and we all sat in uncomfortable silence; save for Grace's breaths.

Although she was young, Grace was smart, and she knew that the plague had killed many people - we all knew. It was just a matter of time before it hit us, and now it had. I tried to comfort myself by stroking the soft, dark strands of Grace's hair; whilst Sasha babbled about what to do about the bakery. We all knew that business would be difficult for them once people found out about the tailor, who lived opposite them.

"Even if you both want to work from here, we won't mind. We'll get through this." My mother proclaimed, her eyes glistening with tears that she refused to let go of. I heard Sasha whimper a 'thank you' as she stood up and my mother enveloped her in a hug. I pressed a kiss to Grace's head, soon moving away as Connie and I both moved to the front door, and I began pulling on my boots. "We won't be long." I informed my mother, who merely looked over Sasha's shoulder and nodded a reply.

The two of us took off, making our way outside and across the front garden in absolute silence, the usual crickets and grasshoppers now silent; our footsteps and breaths being the only sounds to be heard. An uncomfortable silence was how I would describe it, and Connie awkwardly rolled his shoulders as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his brown patched jacket. The walk to the bakery didn't take long at all, and we watched as a myriad of people danced upon the cobblestones, some holding their hands over their hearts, some uttering words of prayer, and others covering their mouths with their hands or shirts as they passed.

I honestly wasn't anywhere near prepared for the sight that I saw; a red sign of the cross painted across the tailor's door. The scent of paint lingered in the air, and for a moment I wondered why the people rushed past with their hands over their mouths, until I realised - they were blocking out the sickness, the miasma - they didn't want to breathe the very air around them. Connie let out a breath at my side, and I stared down at him, watching as a look of pure fear covered his very features, and I could feel the dread roll off of him in heavy waves. Connie was scared - terrified - and I had never seen him in such a way. 

The two of us didn't stop to inquire about why the house was now shut up.

He opened up the bakery without a second word, remaining silent as I followed him inside and watched as he went about, gathering various things to get a start on the work that needed to be done. His hands almost blurred as he stepped into the kitchen and picked up ingredients, filling a bowl with trembling hands; these very hands trembled so violently that I watched as the ingredients fell like soft sand onto the worktop. I moved closer to him in a beat, reaching out to place my hand on his shoulder. 

"Con.. You need to-" He flinched away from my touch, slapping my hand away as he bellowed back at me.

"I'm fine, Marco! Don't go treatin' me like a damn child!" The sheer anger in his voice could never be enough to mask the fear that I saw in his eyes, on his face. Connie was downright terrified. I honestly didn't blame him for being scared, for we knew of the terrible goings on in London due to the plague, and we were all waiting on borrowed time before it hit. It was all but a matter of time.

Tears filled his eyes, making his bright hazel orbs become almost glassy. He was tough, someone that never liked to show his weak side. This was one of the few times I had ever seen Connie crying, one of the other times being when Maria passed away. After a few harsh breaths he rubbed at his eyes and muttered an apology, a weak 'sorry'. 

"Don't apologise for being scared." I breathed, watching the anger leave Connie's eyes just as quickly as it had appeared.

"I'm not-"

"That's bullshit, and you know it." I stated. He didn't reply, he simply let out a disgruntled sigh and slammed a fist down against the counter.

I half expected him to chastise me on swearing, warning me that my mother had probably heard by now, yet he left the matter alone and took to sifting flour through his fingertips. He soon spoke up. "This place is mine and Sasha's home, Marco. How're we supposed to live if we can't work 'ere?" I waited for a moment, staring at him with my mouth agape. 

"My mum said-" My bald companion cut me off, his voice hard and his demeanour just as harsh as his voice.

"I know what your mam said, but we can't accept charity like that. Sasha says it ain't Christian."  
"Con, you ain't even a Christian." Was all I could muster, a long sigh escaping me as I took to leaning against the counter, my arms firmly crossed over my chest.

"And your point bein'?" He quipped, thin lips pulling up into a jesting smile as he raised an eyebrow, his usual humorous self making a grand return.

 

Connie left me to place the bread inside the oven, warning me not to burn my eyebrows off this time. I closed the oven door with the heel of my boot, and then moved to tidy up some of the mess that Connie had made. The booming voices from the street died down at the sound of a bell, and a single muffled shout sounded.

I waited to hear a reply, but it never came. Picking up a broom I then swept the flower and other fallen ingredients into a pile, then found myself wondering where I was supposed to get rid of the waste. Admittedly, I must have stood there for at least five minutes trying to think of what I could use to throw the flour outside, yet I didn't get the chance to clean it up as Connie returned.

"You put the bread in the oven?" He asked, voice echoing across the threshold and making its way into the kitchen as he too made his way over. "Yeah." He stood against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest as he watched me pour more ingredients into a bowl. 

"Con?" I looked up at me, face pale, expression blank. "You alright?" I asked. He nodded meekly and then averted his gaze to the bowl once more as I began to mix the ingredients. "George... The tailor, they said no one can gather for 'is funeral. It'd put people at risk, they could all catch it." His voice was wearier than before, matching his expression. 

"The house is shut up though... Is his daughter inside?" Connie replied with a nod.

"The doctor didn't wanna let anyone else catch it. Said the lass coulda been inside for long enough to get it off 'im, so she's been locked up in the house." He paused for a moment, took a breath, and then continued. "The butcher's lad was gonna be locked up with George's girl, but the bastard ran away." His face was hard, almost angry. I realised then that my stirring had ceased, and so I pushed the bowl towards Connie and then nudged him over to the basin.

He scrubbed at his hands, making sure any traces of sickness were gone from his skin, and that his fingers were dirt free and dry before he turned back to the bowl, and took over my work. I began the tiresome process of washing my own hands of the ingredients that clung to my fingers. The flour became gloopy and became even more awkward to get off, and I found myself groaning as I flicked off the lumps and watched them flop down the drain.

The thudding of dough against the counter tops reminded me off Sasha's actions the previous day. I could see the bruise around his eye as I moved around him and found a cloth to dry my hands. We remained silent.

* * *

 It was early afternoon by the time Sasha had returned, eyes bleary, yet a smile held its place on her lips as she entered and watched Connie as he fought off sleep; his eyes drooping shut every couple of seconds. I'll admit, it was rather odd for Sasha to be so quiet, so content, as she proceeded towards her lover as he finally fell asleep. The worried creases between his brows had disappeared, replaced by a rather peaceful expression as Sasha pulled up a stool and sat across from him, her fingertips brushing over his knuckles. It was a private moment, something that I used to see between my mother and father.

I gave them their privacy, silently backing into the kitchen as a smile of its own had seemed to have made its way to my own lips. The hearty scent of bread filled the air around me, around us, as well as the physical presence of various pieces that had been baked. Not a soul had stepped through the door since the bakery had opened, and it was rather unsettling, as the premises were usually bustling with people as they went about their business and purchased various types of bread and baked goods. As I covered a selection of bread with a cheesecloth, Sasha entered, hands clasped behind her back as she stood in the doorway.

"How long's he been noddin' off for?" She asked, her voice just breaking the silence.

"Not long, maybe a few minutes." Sasha nodded a reply, chestnut hair escaping the loose ponytail it was kept in. Taking one look at her face, it wasn't difficult to tell how exhausted she was. She took it upon herself to hop onto one of the counters, legs swinging slightly, shifting her skirt as she then grabbed at a small bread roll and pulled off pieces. "Give it to me straight, Marco." I lifted my head, gazing over at her as she stared down at the bread.

"No one's been in 'ere today," she lifted her head, her eyes met mine, "have they?"

 I nodded solemnly, no smile forming on my lips as I watched her with a weary gaze. She merely seemed to crumble the remaining pieces of bread into small pieces, until only crumb remained in a pile on her skirt. "No... No one has been in." I  murmured. A ragged breath escaped her, her shoulders heaving as she pressed a hand to her forehead, brushing her fringe from her eyes.

The room remained silent for a moment before I then spoke up, Sasha's eyes fixed on mine as he moved closer to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder as I leaned in and pressed a kiss to her hair. I then pulled back.

"We'll think of something, Sash."

She nodded a reply, as I left, and it was plain to see that she knew that I was trying to convince myself that we'd think of something - that we'd all be okay - yet I knew that things would be much harder than we ever imagined.

* * *

Upon my arrival home, I found Grace standing beside Clover, a comb in her hand as she ran the teeth through the mare's thick mane. She hummed a gentle tune as a rare wind blew across the land, carrying Grace's melody into the air and away. She knew I was there, her movements ceased and Clover snorted as she blinked at me, her tail swishing from side to side like a cow flicking off flies.

My younger sister turned to face me, her face red from the heat of the day and crying, her eyes bleary. A weak smile graced her lips as she nodded in my direction. I then stepped closer, holding a hand out for Clover to sniff before I began to rub at the side of her dappled neck. A loop of green ribbon hung over her neck and I found myself wrapping the satin around my fingers as I addressed Grace.

"You planning on dolling her up?" I asked, feeling the soft material beneath the pad of my thumb. Grace shrugged and moved towards the barn, comb in hand. Clover watched me with hesitant eyes and she then stepped forward and pressed her muzzle to the centre of my shirt and nipped at the material. Grace was soon back within a moment or two and leaned into my side, her temple resting against my upper arm as she remained silent.

Her silence was more than enough for me to understand that she wasn't happy, I knew that from the second I saw her face. I moved an arm around her shoulders and gave her a light squeeze. "Wanna go for a walk?" My voice was gentle, soft, and I felt Grace nod weakly against my arm. Pressing a kiss to her hair, I then squeezed her one more time and nudged her to the side as I moved to place the green ribbon in my pocket, and then grabbed her small hand.

Grace and I walked out some way from our house, my calloused hand engulfing hers as we walked in silence; the two of us dancing over branches and stones as we passed up the great hill that overlooked the village. We sat upon the grassy hill, the green blades beneath my hands warm from the sun. Grace's knees were close to her chest, her thin arms wrapped around them as she stared out across the landscape, her freckled face blank.

"Marco?" She asked in a voice so quiet that it was almost as if she hadn't said a word. 

"Yeah?" My sister then turned her head to face me, dark brown locks tumbling over her left shoulder as she then took to speaking in a weak voice with trembling lips.

"D-Do you think we'll die?" I felt a breath escape me, and I couldn't stop myself from wrapping an arm around her shoulder as I pulled her into me, her hair brushing underneath my chin. I moved a hand to her hair, stroking the silk like strands like I always had.

"What's got you asking those kinds of questions?" My eyes scanned over the horizon, the sun still in the sky and the clouds floating across in golden streaks, like the magic from a sorcerer's wand. It'd be dark within a few hours. She settled further in my arms, letting out a ragged sigh as she moved, stretching out her body against the soft grass as she rested her head in my lap. Her bright amber eyes met mine, the whites of her amber orbs bloodshot with blood red lines weaving their way through the white, like blood against snow. 

"When Sasha was talking to mum earlier... she said that we were all going to die." Her pearly white teeth showed through the gap in her lips as she then bit down on the soft flesh, lifted a hand to her face and wiped away a lone tear. She then uttered the very words that I knew would one day come, and I felt my heart twist within my chest.

"I don't want to die, Marco. I-I... I don't even care much for my lack of a romance. Mum and dad, they had such a beautiful life together, and I won't get that if I die; but I don't care either? I just don't understand how people believe that God could bring about this plague to punish us for being bad... I haven't hurt anybody, and there are so many innocent people out there."

"It doesn't make sense, does it, little one?" I whispered. Grace shook her head slowly, blinking back tears once more.

"If I do die then I could see daddy again." Her voice was so soft, so gentle, and the sheer sincerity of her words pierced my heart, and I then understood how very much she missed our father.


End file.
